Candleburn

by Jack Hayes

  Asp replied with his second catch all phrase.

  “Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah.”

  The Yemeni laughed.

  “I asked you why your car is full of what look like bullet holes,” he said. “So I’m afraid your response doesn’t work this time.”

  “I am most humbly sorry,” Asp said. “My Arabic is too poor.”

  The policeman nodded.

  “Never mind that; what happened?”

  “They are not bullet holes,” Asp replied. “We took the car wadi-bashing. It was a bad choice of vehicle.”

  The policeman considered the situation sceptically. It was clear that he’d merely been told to set up a checkpoint. He’d not been informed as to the purpose of the road closure. That was not unusual. The true exclusion zone was further around the ring road. There the security would be rigorous.

  “These streets are closed today,” the policeman commented. “You’ll have to find a different route.”

  “We are booking into the Al Manzil hotel,” Asp said, pointing just down the road. “It is outside your main cordon for the conference in the Burj; however, we need to come through to park our car there. If you ask your superior officer, arrangements should have been made to let us inside.”

  The policeman looked again at Asp and then Blake’s face.

  Blake was fast asleep and snoring.

  Fortunately, the blood of his wounds was no longer visible. Alexandria had fitted two bandages during the journey into the city and he’d changed into his last set of clean clothes.

  Normally, there was considerable leeway given to British, German and American expats in Dubai. With crime rates low and a good portion of the state’s economy run by those three groups, it made little sense to target the three nationalities unless there was a strong reason.

  “Just to the Al Manzil?”

  “Just to the Al Manzil,” Nate said. “Have you been there? They have an excellent restaurant.”

  The policeman nodded and waved them through.

  ***

  Blake was still groggy when they walked up the marble steps to the headquarters of Kaskhar Industries. He put his hands to the glass double panelled sliding doors that marked the entrance.

  It was dark inside.

  “It’s a work day,” he said. “Where is everyone?”

  “Supposedly, Kashkar gave everyone the day off for his wedding anniversary,” Asp replied. “It’s nice to think that employer-employee loyalty at Kaskhar includes warning your staff so you don’t blow them up.”

  Asp looked down at the flight bag containing the P90 in Blake’s hand.

  “You still have enough rounds for that thing?”

  “Two clips left, with 50 bullets each,” Blake replied. “If we need more than 100 slugs, we’ll probably be in worse trouble than simply not having enough ammo. Are you sure you don’t want the pistol? It still has a few shots left.”

  “I don’t really do violence,” Asp said. “Threats of violence, yes. In the worst case – I had Zain to protect me. I certainly don’t do guns.”

  “Could have fooled me, slugger,” Blake said, smiling and lifting a hand to his cheek. “Now, how do we get in?”

  Asp stood back and examined the door itself. It was a standard corporate design – pane of glass, a gap of around two metres, and then a second pane. There was a pass card panel attached to the wall.

  “I wish I’d known I was going to be coming back here,” he commented. “I’d have grabbed a key. We could look for a fire exit?”

  Blake checked over his shoulder. There were too many people around to simply smash the glass and waltz through. He glanced back at the door and then checked the angle of the stairs.

  “That’s okay,” Blake said. “I’ve an idea. You’ll have to hold the flight bag for a minute. Whatever happens, keep walking as though nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Come with me.”

  They turned and began slowly down the stone steps.

  Blake put his hands in his outside jacket pocket and fumbled for a few seconds.

  Three pops – no louder than a champagne cork being sloppily released from a bottle. The sound of shattering. Blake and Asp continued nonchalantly down the staircase. Of the twenty or so people on the street, no more than five scanned to see where the noise had come from.

  With everyone moving blithely on their way, even those who were alerted quickly returned to their business.

  “Amazing,” Asp said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “The human brain is a marvel.”

  “It has to be primed to notice anything out of the ordinary,” Blake replied. “You’ve heard of the ‘did you spot the gorilla’ experiment?”

  “The one where they show footage of a basketball game to people and ask them to count how many times the players in white pass the ball?” Asp asked.

  “That’s the one,” Blake said. “Then they walk a man in a gorilla costume through and when the footage is over, they ask people if they saw anything abnormal – and only half ever do. The rest are too focused on counting.”

  “It was a real eye opener for me,” Asp said. “And you’re saying that’s why no-one on the street noticed you shoot backwards from your pocket and destroy a glass-fronted door – because their Stone Age brains weren’t primed for it?”

  At the bottom of the stairs, Blake turned to Asp and raised a finger. He pantomimed forgetting to take something from his office. Asp acted surprised and gestured back up the steps. They began the return journey to the now open building.

  “I’m saying more than that,” Blake replied. “The people out here may not be primed but those inside the building are. The sound of glass door breaking is likely to attract their attention. Now, there’s one bullet left in the pistol. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

  Asp rubbed his beard as they walked across the broken glass into the foyer.

  “It’s a kind offer,” he said. “I think I’ll save it for later.”

  53

  Asp’s shoes crunched with the compacted glass embedded in their soles. They crossed the tiled floor to the elevators. The red numbers in the digital displays indicated all the lifts were stuck at the sixth floor.

  Rasoul’s office.

  “We’ll take the stairwell?” Asp suggested, rubbing his feet clean on a Persian rug in the waiting area.

  Blake agreed.

  They moved softly up the stone steps, listening for any sound. When they neared the top floor they could hear voices coming from inside. Asp recognised one as Rasoul. The second was Russian: Fedor Milanovich.

  “I knew I should have kidnapped that miserable worm when I had the chance,” Asp whispered. “It’s Rasoul and the head of the Russian mob.”

  “Then they’re likely both armed,” Blake replied. “What’s the layout of the room?”

  “It’s like a museum in there. Kaskhar has a fixation about knights and chivalry. There’s a fire exit on the far side that leads up to the roof, which you’ve got to imagine is where they’ve put the bomb.”

  “What makes you say that?” Blake asked.

  “When I was here earlier, Rasoul said they’d installed a solar plant. If the bomb wasn’t up there why would he be in his office now?”

  “Why be here at all?” Blake replied. “There’s only two hours to the meeting. Why aren’t they fleeing the country?”

  Asp raised a finger to indicate silence. The two voices were having a heated argument.

  “We’ve covered that already,” Rasoul said.

  A burst of loud coughing.

  “You want out safely, we have to go now,” the Russian replied. “They sign in two hours. Fuse is two hours. Go up, insert the key. We need to go.”

  “The signing’s scheduled for two hours but this is a government meeting,” Rasoul replied. “These things are never on time. Once the fuse starts, it can’t be switched off. The ceremony will last an hour, then they’ll have lunch. It’s better to wait thirty minutes more, then we go.”

  �
�I don’t see why you need me here,” the Russian grumbled. “I should be home with my family.”

  “Don’t you mean, screwing your whore?” Rasoul snapped.

  The Russian swore a chain of expletives.

  More coughing.

  “The deal was made plain when you signed up,” Rasoul continued. “You have experience with these things from your Spetznaz days. If you want the second half of the money – you’ll stay until the key is turned.”

  “Then let’s at least go up to the roof to keep watch.”

  “And again with this... no!” the Iranian said. “They will have snipers on the Address hotel opposite and the other high buildings. If we go on the roof and hang about, we’ll be targets. If we wander calmly outside, insert the key and come back inside, no-one will focus on us. Just wait. Have a drink.”

  Blake’s face lit up with relief.

  “What?” Nate whispered.

  “If the bomb’s got a two hour fuse and they haven’t primed it yet, we can stop this before it starts.”

  “How do you want to play this?” Nate asked.

  Blake unzipped the bag. He stuffed the spare magazine in his pocket and checked over the machine gun.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  He sneaked through the door.

  ***

  Rasoul Kaskhar looked out from his all-glass corner office at the Dubai Mall fountain.

  The jets where shot gallons of water high into the air in time to serenades of classical Arabic music. Crowds of tourists thronged against the display’s edge, whooping and hollering with excitement as the show blasted away like a firework display. It seemed as though visitors to the shopping mall weren’t subject to the exclusion zone.

  “Typical Dubai,” Kashkar mumbled. “Money trumps everything.”

  He reached for the leaded-glass whiskey decanter hidden discretely in a cupboard next to the window and poured himself a generous double helping of 50-year-old scotch. He then locked the cupboard. Even though Dubai was a tolerant place, it was best to keep alcohol out of sight and over time, such thinking simply became habit even when no Emiratis were around.

  As he savoured its smoky tones, Rasoul lifted his gaze to the Burj Khalifa, 400 metres away on the far side of the artificial lake. God, he loved this place. The tower thrust upwards towards the heavens, gleaming with reverence.

  It was a shame it would soon be no more.

  But there were always costs in any great vision.

  Rasoul coughed violently. He brought a small cotton handkerchief to his mouth and wiped the sputum from his lips. It was dark red with blood.

  What good was money when faced with a chest full of cancer?

  And to think, he’d survived and accomplished so much.

  Thirty-five years ago, he’d fled the violence of Iran’s revolution and arrived on a dirty wooden dhow in Dubai’s creek-side harbour. He chuckled and took another slug of whiskey to wash away the taste of death from his mouth.

  All he’d escaped with had been the blue tee-shirt he wore, thick cloth trousers and a pair of leather sandals. The religious zealots had stripped him of everything else – even the photo of his mother, hidden in his wallet – as he crossed through check-point after check-point to reach the coast. When he arrived in Dubai, he stank of fish from hiding out in the hold of the small fishing boat. Sleeping on the deck had been out of the question. Both sides in the revolution shot refugees on sight. He’d have put the entire crew at risk.

  In the lifetime since his arrival, he’d built an empire. An import-export business. A network of construction firms. He had interests in natural gas, shipping, even a hotel operation. He was the embodiment of the Dubai story. From nothing to $250 million. There was a reason Arabs called Dubai the City of Dreams.

  The Russian was still bleating behind him.

  Coward.

  Fedor was being handsomely paid. Two and a half million dollars had been splashed on finding and buying the bomb from a dealer in the Ukraine. More on transportation – fortunately, he could use his own ships to ensure discretion. Milanovich would get another half a million before the day’s end, once the weapon was primed.

  Rasoul swilled his glass.

  The plan was simplicity itself.

  It was all about bringing freedom for his people in Iran.

  And like any good business deal, the cost would be borne by others. He picked up the hand-sized, Cartier picture frame from his desk. Behind the glass was a dog-eared black-and-white photo. It had taken four years to track the soldier who’d robbed him as he entered the town of Shiraz on his way to escape.

  Fortunately, the man had kept the wallet and hadn’t found the photo hidden behind a back false seam.

  Rasoul smiled as he admired the portrait of his mother, sitting on a swing in the front garden of his childhood Tehran home. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, his eyes moving from her youthful face to the light brown staining around the edges of the photo. He rubbed his thumb across the glass as though he could caress the once scarlet blotches, the last remaining evidence of the soldier who’d stolen his possessions and beaten him with the butt of a rifle until he cried and begged.

  His lips widened with satisfaction.

  Whether it was a thieving prostitute who’d tried to scupper his plans by mailing a pathetic puzzle box to a journalist, or the incompetent security agents who’d kept stumbling across his plot: no-one crossed Rasoul Kaskhar and lived.

  54

  Blake darted behind a chest-high pedestal and ducked.

  He examined the room. It was an ersatz replica of a crypt – fake columns and pillars leading up to a vaned, vaulted ceiling, with everything painted in a light yellow giving the effect of the Caen stone favoured by Northern French and British cathedrals.

  Plinths lined the spaces between the cushioned columns, each displaying an array of medieval items. Suits of armour, broadswords, bows and arrows; it reminded Blake of a trip to Arundel.

  He edged around the plinth. A knight in mid-swing with a mace towered above him.

  “So creepy,” he thought. “Bloody millionaires – nutters, the lot of them.”

  From here, between the legs of another mannequin, he could roughly see Fedor and Rasoul. Ideally, he’d have preferred to move closer, but if the Russian truly had been in the Spetnaz, Blake didn’t want to chance it.

  He aimed.

  It was a tricky shot, through the legs of another knight, sporting a shield and sword. Blake considered switching on the rifle’s laser pointer.

  Again, too risky.

  Shots under pressure.

  Blake thought he’d left all this behind him long, long ago.

  He stared through the gun sight.

  Breathe.

  “Slow, slow down.”

  Breathe.

  The Russian moved out of Blake’s line of sight.

  “Shit.”

  ***

  “One thing you never explained to me,” Fedor said stepping forward, “how do you plan to live out the rest of your days?”

  Rasoul faced the Russian.

  “My wife is Brazilian,” he said. “Once the bomb is set, I will fly to meet her in Rio. It is in the country’s constitution that no-one married to a local who has children can be extradited.”

  “You won’t miss your wealth? They’ll seize it the moment they figure out where the bomb was based.”

  Kaskhar snorted.

  “I already have $20 million invested there,” he said. “How much can one man spend in two years? That’s how long I have, if I’m lucky. It will be enough to take care of Rosette and the boy long after I’m gone.”

  He coughed again. He leaned on his desk for support.

  Fedor reached forward and helped Rasoul to the leather-backed seat.

  “You should stop trying to talk me out of our arrangement,” Rasoul continued. “After all, if I don’t go through with it, you won’t get the rest of your money and your employer Al Calandria won’t get the rest of my business emp
ire. Once he assumes control, the state will be unlikely to expropriate it.”

  Fedor closed his eyes.

  Rasoul didn’t care if the hired help was getting cold feet; he only needed the Russian for a few more minutes.

  Then the bomb would be primed and unstoppable.

  “Then let’s get it over and done with,” Fedor said. “Come on, Rasoul: it’s time enough.”

  The Iranian sighed.

  “Alright,” he said wearily. “We’ll do it now.”

  The Russian lifted him to his feet and brought him around the desk.

  “Get off me,” Rasoul commanded, “I’m not a cripple.”

  The Russian let go. He then flew into the air and landed prone on the floor.

  Crack.

  Thump.

  Rasoul knew that sound well.

  ***

  The Russian moved into view.

  Blake pulled the trigger.

  Fedor was taken from his feet. Rasoul looked up. He ran. Blake re-aimed. The Iranian was quick on his toes for an ill, old man. The clatter of a door. The stairs to the roof.

  Blake rose from his knees and bolted after him.

  He shoulder barged the door.

  He fell on his back.

  He cursed loudly.

  The fire exit was jammed from the other side.

  He raised the P90 and emptied the clip into the wood around the hinges. With a firm boot, the door gave way.

  Blake sprinted three at a time up the steps.

  ***

  Nate put his head into the room and saw Blake disappearing up to the roof.

  He pulled out his phone to call Ron.

  No signal.

  “Of course,” he muttered. “Well, that explains why they had to be here in person.”

  Security services routinely jam cell networks, or even shut down entire sections of mobile mast towers during important conferences or official visits. It stops modern bombs being detonated by remote signal.

  He paced towards Rasoul’s desk. He had to phone Ron and let him know the bomb was here at Kaskhar’s building and based on the roof. Maximum elevation, maximum exposure to the air – maximum blast range.

  A rumble.

  He looked disconcertingly at the suits of armour. He half expected one to come alive.